


then leaf subsides to leaf

by pied_pollo



Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [5]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Brotherly Exasperation, Brotherly Love, Character Study, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Episode: s01e03 Fear Response, Episode: s01e11 Alone Time, Fights, Gapfill, Gen, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, JT is understandably done with him, Kidnapping, Malcolm Bright is a Disaster, Military, Murder, Post-Episode: s01e11 Alone Time, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Swearing, and i don't wanna tag, but just in case, hopefully no one's too ooc, i'm gONNA CHOP OFF YOUR HAND, implied but briefly, kind of, more like, more than i thought i would add, sorry about that, the usual, this took a while, uhhh, well if 'love' is the word for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25341022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: Head down, chin up--words to live by.
Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824919
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	then leaf subsides to leaf

“Listen to me.”

He shifted his stance, toes scrunching underneath his shoes.

“I want you to remember something.”

He could hear his mother in the background, sniffling softly, tone hard and icy: “Get _out_ of here.”

His father seemed temporarily thrown off by the outburst as well, but continued: “You’re--you’re _my_ son.”

He glanced up, made eye contact for a brief second before fixing his eyes back on the ground.

“And I will _always_ love you.”

The loose grip on his shoulder vanished, leaving him cold and unbalanced.

“You understand, right?”

He nodded, even though he didn’t understand.

“Look our for your mother.”

JT watched him go.

* * *

While Malcolm soared through his academics, JT struggled. It wasn’t that the latter wasn’t smart; JT just didn’t _feel_ it. The books and the sitting weren’t for him--he needed to be _out_ , doing things, experiencing things. _Living_ his childhood instead of watching it go by.

His mother was understandably disappointed when she read his report card. “Fights, JT? Behavior problems?”

“I know, Mom,” JT mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

His mother smiled softly, rubbing her hand on his shoulder. “I know you don’t like it, baby, but you’ve got to try.”

“But they _suck_ ,” JT sniffed. “Charlie, Henry--they’re always picking on me.”

“Keep your chin up,” she advised, “but keep your head down. Don’t give ‘em the satisfaction of seeing you mad. You understand?”

JT nodded.

“Don’t worry. You’ll find your crowd one day.”

* * *

Head down, chin up--words to live by. JT supported his mom, did better in school, made some friends. Things were going well.

Neither of them were surprised when he decided to enlist. JT told her one night, and by the next morning, she submitted his form and told him over the phone.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“ _Sure thing, baby. I’m so proud of you, you know?”_

“I know.”

“Hey, bitch!”

JT turned around at the new voice, curious.

“ _Did you just curse, young man?_ ” his mother scolded over the line.

“No!” JT insisted. “No, it wasn’t me...I’m going to call you back.”

“ _Be careful._ ”

“Yeah, that’s right! Talkin’ to you, you big _sissy._ ”

A second voice. JT skirted around a building to see the commotion--a group of teenagers, young adults. They seemed around his age, and they were gathered in a semicircle. JT peeked over the heads to see another kid (fifteen, maybe sixteen, but it was hard to tell because he was on the small side) trying to push through the crowd.

“Whatcha’ gonna do, hm?” one of the boys sneered. “Gonna cry like a little girl? Go run to daddy?”

The kid spread his legs apart, shoulders squared. He kept his fists at his sides, but they were clenched, tensed. He was getting ready to fight.

“Oh, don’t mess with him!” another boy crowed. “He’s gonna cut you up!”

“Let me through, Kurt,” the kid growled.

The first boy--Kurt--put his hand to his chest in mock fear. “You wanna _fight_ me?”

“Look, look!” a new boy screeched. “His hands are shaking again. I think he’s _sca-a-red_.”

The kid squeezed his fists tighter; JT noticed the visible tremor in his right hand.

“ _Shut up_ ,” he hissed.

“Why? You gonna slit my throat?” Kurt mocked. “Gonna rip out my heart?”

The kid swallowed hard and tucked his violently trembling hand into his pocket.

“Didn’t think so, _freak_ ,” Kurt spat, taking a step closer. “This is what you get for messin’ with my sale, you--”

“Your _sale_?” the kid interrupted softly, the faintest hint of amusement lacing his voice. “You mean the drugs, right?”

Damn. This kid had _nerve_.

He continued: “I won’t disrupt your business, Kurt, but do you know who will? The police, when they find out you’ve been selling to kids. I don’t know about you,” he added, “but I think that all they need is confirmation--just one kid to speak up, one kid to die from a bad batch.”

“They won’t snitch,” Kurt growled. “I give ‘em the dope, and it’s good. That’s how we roll.”

“‘ _We_ ’? So it’s a group effort?”

“You better shut your mouth, before I fuck you up real good.”

A pause. Then: “‘Fucking me up’ is actually illegal, because I’m a minor.”

Kurt grabbed the kid’s shirt and shoved him against the wall. JT hurried over, ready to break up the fight, but before he could speak up, the kid brought a not-so-shaky fist down on Kurt’s nose. 

Kurt stumbled back, clutching his face, and one of his cronies charged forward, grabbing the kid by the hair and slamming his head back. JT only stared as the kid thrusted his knee forward into his stomach.

Holy shit.

The kid’s moment of triumph dissipated, however, because soon the rest of the boys were on him, yelling and pummeling in a flying cloud of limbs. JT snapped back to attention and jogged over, shouting over the clamor: “Hey, _hey!_ Break it up!”

All the heads turned to look at him.

_Head down. Chin up._

Kurt marched forward.

_Head down. Chin up._

JT hesitated; he promised his mother he wouldn’t get into fights.

_Head down. Chin up._

But then he made up his mind-- _fuck that_ \--and punched Kurt hard in his sorry, bleeding face, chalking up his excuse to the fact that technically, his head _was_ down, because Kurt was shorter than him.

The gang of boys retreated.

JT turned to the kid. “You good?”

“Fine,” the kid breathed, then added indignantly, “I could’ve taken them.”

“Sure you would’ve.” JT chuckled, then sobered. “That was a dumbass thing to do.”

The kid shrugged. “He was dealing to kids--ten-year-olds--, but the drugs went missing. Someone stole them, they blamed me.”

“Someone?” JT echoed suspiciously.

The kid nodded earnestly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Thank you for helping.”

“No problem. What’s your name?”

The kid swallowed, suddenly nervous. He cast his eyes at the ground. “Malcolm.”

“You’ve got a mean swing, Malcolm.” JT grinned, clapping him on the shoulder, “see ya’ around.”

“It’s actually very unlikely that we’ll meet again,” Malcolm replied, “considering the size of New York, plus the fact that you’re leaving. Military?”

“How the hell did you--”

“I heard you on the phone earlier.”

“Oh.” JT shook his head and chuckled. “You’re weird, you know that?”

“It’s kinda my thing.”

“Right, then. Good luck, kid.”

Malcolm was wrong--despite JT’s future in the army, and despite the size of New York, they would meet again. The thing was, when they did, neither would recognize each other.

* * *

The room was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. JT shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to ignore the seven pairs of eyes trained patiently on him.

“Um, so…” he began, clearing his throat, “this feels a bit weird, y’know? Oh, right--uh, I’m JT. As you might know.”

A few of the others echoed greetings.

“I, uh, just got honorably discharged after my last tour,” JT continued awkwardly. He gestured to his leg. “Should make a full recovery. But, um...damn, I don’t know what to say.” He swallowed, thought for a moment, then added: “Guess I should talk about my feelings, right?”

“Say whatever makes you feel comfortable,” someone murmured, though JT didn’t know who.

“Right, sure,” he replied. “Um...I guess it’s just weird, y’know? Being here, that is. It’s like...I spent so much time in the...yeah, and suddenly, _bam_. Back to normal in a snap. Unnerving, I guess, I dunno...feels...not right. Like, uh...everyone I see, all the time, they’re...calm. Unfazed. I’ve seen so much shit out there, and I guess...I kinda forgot what _normalcy_ is.”

The others stayed silent, so JT took it as a sign to keep talking: “I stood in my kitchen this morning and saw this woman get robbed out the window. Just like that, gun to the face and he was off in seconds. Did what I could, I guess...but it didn’t feel...right. I guess I was just thinkin’, um…‘why am I here? Why is this okay? Why aren’t I there?’ I felt lost, I guess. Not goin’ _back_ , that’s for sure, ‘cause I like living, but...I can’t stand... _not_ being back.”

* * *

“Hey, Tarmel!”

JT turned around, coffee in one hand, to see an older man jogging over.

“That was really good, back there,” the man said, holding out his hand. “I’m Mike Perkins, NYPD.”

“Tarmel,” JT replied dumbly, before realizing Perkins already knew his name.

“I felt the same way, when I first came back,” Perkins said softly.

“Oh.”

“Have you ever considered the NYPD?”

“Not really...why?”

Perkins grinned. “I got a buddy in Organized Crime--Arroyo. Gil Arroyo. He’s a real good man. And a guy like you can push through the Academy in no time.”

JT raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Organized crime? Like, homicides and stuff?”

“Military’s pretty good on a resume,” Perkins replied, “means experience.” He clapped him on the shoulder, and JT almost spilled his coffee. “Think about it? I dunno, I thought maybe it might help you adjust.”

JT nodded and shook his hand. “Thanks, man. I’ll check it out.”

* * *

His mother was right--he _did_ find his crowd, eventually. Perkins introduced him to a whole new swath of people--some ex-military, some not--and it was...nice. These new officers didn’t bother him, didn’t ask personal questions. For once, JT had regular relationships--guys he went to the bar with on holidays, guys he invited for dinner. He met his wife--not in the NYPD, but through a friend--and for a while, normalcy seemed possible.

That was, until Malcolm Bright showed up again.

Women were being killed--three so far, but no one in the NYPD had a clue as to when this killer was going to stop. Gil said he was calling in a criminal psychologist, and they agreed--whatever this ‘profiling’ business was, as Gil described it, it seemed legit enough to help close this case.

The door opened and Gil stepped forward, flanked by Dani and a short guy with a black peacoat--the psychologist, at a guess. JT met them and handed Gil the victim file: “Vanessa Hobbs, 43, unmarried.” He flashed them a sly grin. “That’s my type.”

“So you’re a necrophiliac?” the profiler asked excitedly.

JT stopped in his tracks, the smile quickly dropping. “What? No--,” he looked to Gil, “who is this guy?”

Gil sighed as if he was expecting this. “JT, Bright--Bright, JT,” he introduced, then added, “you’re not gonna like each other.”

“Good to know,” Bright murmured distractedly, eyes focused on the victim. “Excuse me.”

JT turned to Gil. “Who the hell was that?”

“He’s an old friend,” Gil replied, “and he’s a bit eccentric--”

“A _bit_?”

“--but he gets the job done, and well,” Gil finished pointedly. “Listen, JT, I’m just calling him in for now. I don’t even know if we’re going to need--”

“That’ll be an injection point into her iliac crest, and a third near her heart,” Bright said suddenly, and JT turned around to gawk.

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Killer’s a copycat,” Bright explained, as if it was the most obvious thing in the word. “He’s mimicking another serial killer: Dr. Martin Whitly. The Surgeon.”

Dani furrowed her brow in confusion. “And you know all about this ‘Surgeon’ guy?”

“Almost like he’s family,” Bright muttered darkly, slapping the file to Gil’s chest and leaving the crime scene. JT and Dani exchanged a confused look with him, and he gave them an apologetic nod before turning to follow Bright out the door.

“I don’t know about you,” JT remarked, “but I think this is gonna be one hell of a case.”

* * *

One hell of a case, indeed, but interestingly enough, the Quartet murders didn’t bother JT as much as their bizarre profiler. Bright spoke confidently but walked jerkily, as if he was constantly trying to decide whether or not to speed up. There was a wild, glazed look in his eyes that did convey intelligence, but also exhaustion, and something JT couldn’t quite place.

He later realized that said ‘something’ turned out to be pure _mania_.

They came to talk to a potential witness--Nico Stavros, but as soon as they busted in, things took an...explosive turn, to say the least. It was like JT blinked and he was on the ground, counting the minutes they had until the chair Nico was strapped to exploded.

Dani and Gil were gone, thank goodness, but the timer was coming to a close, and JT had to think fast. If he could just get access to some tool…

“Find me a screwdriver!” he shouted over Nico’s screaming. “I think I can pick the lock!”

“No time!” Bright responded, but his voice carried from a far part of the apartment.

JT growled and started to push himself to his feet, debating whether or not to leave Nico and buck it or explode with the building.

“JT!” Bright hollered suddenly. “Kitchen! Get ice! Lots,” he added nervously, and despite the confusion, JT’s legs carried him to the freezer.

“What’s happening?” Nico cried.

Bright hesitated. There was something gripped firmly in his hands, but before JT could get a glimpse of what it was, he yelled at Nico: “I’m gonna chop off your hand!”

What?

JT whipped around, continuing to fill a small cooler with ice, and in the distance, he heard Malcolm laugh. _Laugh._

No doubt about it; Bright was _out of his goddamn mind._

He kicked Nico in the chest, effectively shoving the chair onto its back, and brandished an axe. _An axe._ JT swept another handful of ice into the container, listening to Bright murmur: “I’m willing to let go and trust myself. I’m willing to let go and trust myself.”

“Bright!” JT shouted, as Bright swung the axe in the air. “Bright, no, NO, DON’T DO IT, DON’T--”

_THWACK._

* * *

_THWACK._

Nico screeched, and Malcolm let the axe fall to the ground. JT shouted something, but he couldn’t hear it; his heartbeat was pounding in his ears, hard and fast: _Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Badum. Badum. Badumbadum._

JT grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, shaking him slightly.

_Badumbadumbadumbadum._

His mouth tasted like copper; Nico’s blood stained his shirt.

_Badumbadubadumbadum._

All the euphoria and adrenaline that had been pumping through his veins vanished, leaving Malcolm shaky and disconnected. His feet were propelling him somewhere, and the cooler containing Nico’s hand was shoved into his arms. The word in his head felt leadlike on his tongue: _euphoria._ Euphoria, euphoria. He ran it through his mouth. Euphoria. Euphoria. Why did he think euphoria? That’s positive. It’s…

He enjoyed it.

Malcolm’s heartbeat increased; it jackhammered away behind his ribs and he worried they might crack.

_BaDUMBaDUMBaDUMBaDUMBaDUM._

Someone was shoving him backwards slightly; Malcolm blinked. He was outside the building, and the ground was rocking. Why was it...oh, right. The explosion. Cooler in his hands. The air was vibrating and uncomfortably hot.

“Hello?”

Dani was in front of him. Where was JT?

Over there. Ambulance. Hand to ambulance, that was a good idea. Chopping off said hand, perhaps not, but Nico was alive. Mostly. Maybe?

“I gotta give them a hand,” Malcolm breathed, pushing past Dani and staggering to JT, who was looking mildly concerned, but the air was still ringing and his hands were still shaking and it felt like steam was rising from his scalp, pulling his awareness away with it, and his heart was still _BaDUMBaDUM_ -ing and suddenly he was at the ambulance but he couldn’t hear the sirens or really think of much except _euphoria_.

“What the hell was that?” JT blurted out.

Malcolm’s eyes wandered to the ground, to the sky, to the smoldering building. “What was what?”

“You, like, froze, man. Didn’t hear a word I said.”

“Didn’t need to,” Malcolm replied, still staring off into the distance, “kind of made the connections myself.”

“You’re batshit _insane_ , you know that?”

Malcolm hummed detachedly. JT shook his head and made his way back to the car.

* * *

The rest of the case went by in a blur, spiced with random gems of new information JT gleaned about their profiler: runs in his sleep. Screams in his sleep. Doesn’t like backup. Homicidal tendencies. In short, JT concluded that there was something not that straight in Bright’s head.

Technically, he wasn’t wrong.

In the distance, Bright had his back to them, obviously still reeling from holding a syringe to his wrist. JT tapped Gil and gestured to him. “You sure he’s good?”

“He usually is,” Gil sighed. He hesitated for a moment, then said. “I need to tell you something.”

Dani and JT looked at each other before Gil spoke: “Malcolm--”

JT froze. “Stop,” he ordered firmly.

“...What?”

“Malcolm. That’s his name.”

“Yes.”

It all came back, and even worse, it all made sense. JT groaned and put his face in his hands. “You’ve got to be _fucking_ kidding me.”

Dani snickered. “What is it?”

“It’s--nevermind,” JT huffed, “although whatever you’re about to say probably won’t shock me anymore. Think I’ve seen enough today that--”

“--Malcolm Bright’s real name is Malcolm Whitly.”

Dani looked at the ground, eyes somber. Gil swallowed. JT stared at him, the wheels in his head turning.

Whitly. _Whitly?_ Bright was…

“The _Surgeon’s son?_ ” JT realized out loud. He turned to Gil, aghast. “ _Gil_. You know I love you, man, but this is a step _too far_.”

“Gil, who is he?” Dani cut in. “Who is he to you?”

Gil explained.

* * *

Malcolm Bright did not live by the _head down, chin up_ code JT was raised with. In fact, _everything_ about Bright was up. It was kind of unnerving, and honestly obnoxious--he seemed to have no discipline whatsoever. JT was a man of procedure, of getting the job done and done right; this kid waltzed around, making decisions as he moved with no regard for _anyone_ ’s safety, not even his own.

So, understandably, JT didn’t like him all that much.

“What does it stand for?” Bright asked suddenly, when they sat in the car during a stakeout. “JT.”

JT didn’t answer. He was tired and really not in the mood for--

“Julian?”

\--that.

“Jason?”

JT pursed his mouth shut and resisted the urge to throw Bright out of the car.

“ _John_...Jake? Joseph!”

“I’m not sure you’re stakeout material,” JT muttered through gritted teeth.

“I’m a chronic insomniac,” Bright deadpanned, “I was born for this.”

JT gestured to Dr. Brown’s massive house. “How many kids’ brains you gotta scramble to get one of those? Sorry,” he added to Bright, because he was feeling petty, “I know she’s your people.”

“No.” Bright brought up his index finger and tilted it towards JT. “ _You’re_ my people.”

JT stared at him.

Bright looked hurt. “Tell me why I’m wrong.”

JT took in a deep breath. “In the service,” he explained, “we have a hierarchy; your rank commands respect. Cops are the same--I have a badge, I have a title...but you don’t respect me.”

He expected an indignant quip, a witty, self-deprecating remark, but Bright’s eyes softened. “When I was a little kid,” he said quietly, “a cop came to my house…”

_“...and he told me to take out my gun,” Gil said, “because...his father was going to kill me. Martin Whitly was the Surgeon, he explained.”_

“...he put cuffs on a bad guy…”

_“Obviously, we found the evidence, arrested him within the hour. But this kid...he was scared. Not for himself, but…”_

“...and took him away.”

_“...he begged me to find her. But it turns out she wasn’t even real. Shit, he was absolutely shell-shocked, terrified that he got a woman killed...”_

“He saved me.”

_“...he saved a lot of lives that night, including mine.”_

“No one has more respect for the badge--or the people that wear it--than I do.”

JT laid off. Bright turned his head down to his shoes, fidgeting uncomfortably, before he glanced back at the house. When he turned back, his eyes were gleaming; the same _I’ve-got-a-death-wish-plan_ face he’d worn in Nico’s apartment. JT was pretty sure that face was going to give him nightmares.

“I need to ask Dr. Brown another question,” Bright said, “for the profile.”

Before JT could protest, he opened the car door and jogged into the building. JT sighed and reclined his chair, feeling off. There was something sad about this kid, he had to admit--a sort of stress that made you tense with his own emotions.

As if on cue, the lights in Dr. Brown’s house suddenly switched off.

JT grabbed his phone and dialed Malcolm before rushing to the house: “What’s going on?” he asked, skipping two stairs at a time.

“ _JT_ ,” Malcolm replied, “ _Render’s in the house._ ”

JT tried the knob, then cursed. “Front door’s locked. I’m going around back.”

Crackling over the line--music. JT hung up the phone and skirted around the side of the house, but the back door wasn’t budging. He shoved it, but the wood was solid and wouldn’t yield, so he slammed his foot into the lock and busted it open. 

There were sounds of a struggle inside. JT drew his gun and cleared one room at a time, before moving to the noise. And then, suddenly--

 _BANG._ A gunshot. JT quickened his pace and moved to the staircase to find Dominic Render slumped over the railing, bleeding from a gunshot wound to the upper chest. At the base of the stairs was Dr. Brown, holding a shotgun.

“Police!” JT shouted.

“NO!” Bright hollered, holding his hand up. “No, no, wait!”

JT paused, gun still up, and Bright turned to Dr. Brown. “You’re in the midst of an intense psychedelic experience,” he told her, clear and slow, “but at the end of the day, it is still...just...a trip. You can’t outrun the fear--you have to move into it.”

“It’s too quick,” Brown wailed, voice choppy and unsure, “I have to--I have to go back!”

“The fear you’re feeling right now,” Bright said, “that’s _real._ Stop fighting it. You have to let the fear consume you, and the panic will subside.” He pointed to Dominic. “ _You did this._ And now, you have to live with yourself.”

He spoke like he knew what he was doing, like he had experience, and JT wondered what the hell happened in his life between fighting dealers and joining the NYPD.

“I can’t,” Brown mumbled, the shotgun trembling in her grip. Her voice grew weaker, repeating the _I can’t, I can’t_ until it dissolved into incoherent babbling, and she collapsed in a heap.

JT reached down to take Brown’s pulse--rapid, but steady--and turned to Bright, who was slumped over the top of the stairs. His knuckles were scraped, and there was light bruising on his face from where Render had put up a fight. JT was admittedly impressed; maybe Bright wasn’t as physically incapable as he’d thought.

Then again, he _did_ throw a wicked hammer fist all those years ago. JT had to give him some credit.

Despite being on the ground, Bright swayed on his knees, and when he looked up, his eyes were shiny and unfocused. JT suspected he had a concussion of some sort.

And then Bright _laughed_ ; weak, hysterical chuckles bubbling out of his throat, like they would turn to sobs at any moment.

“Jehovah?” he wheezed, “Jerome? What is it? You’ve got--you’ve got to tell me.”

Definitely a concussion.

* * *

“Have you seen Bright?”

“No, I thought he...Gil?”

“I didn’t see him.”

“...Then where’d he go?”

* * *

Holy fuck. Holy _fuck_. Those were the only two words going through JT’s head as Gil blew through four red lights to get to the Whitly house.

He screeched to a stop, and everyone was thrown forward with the force. Without bothering to close the doors, Gil and Dani burst out of the car, guns drawn.

“Hey, shouldn’t we wait for Agent Swanson and her team?” JT shouted after them as he turned off the engine.

“ _Fuck Swanson!_ ” Gil yelled back, and threw open the door.

The house was eerily silent, and completely dark. JT moved carefully but briskly, moving on high alert. Dani and Gil moved in opposite directions, ready to clear the house. In the distance, sirens--the FBI wasn’t far behind, and the shrill whine of an ambulance signaled the EMTs on standby. JT knew grimly that there was a good chance they would be needed.

“In here!”

Mrs. Whitly was shouting from somewhere nearby. Gil and JT flanked Dani and moved in quickly, not wasting a beat.

In the living room were the Whitlys--Jessica, Ainsley, and Bright, all huddled together like a scared flock of penguins. Dani traced her gun around the room, scanning it for Watkins. “Where is he?” she asked.

“He’s--I don’t know,” Ainsley admitted. JT noticed the blood running down her face.

“He’s gone,” Bright mumbled, barely audible.

Gil holstered his gun, concern evident. “Where is he?”

“Kitchen,” Bright whispered, voice drained of any emotion, any of the life that they were used to. “Trunk.”

Gil nodded to Dani, who put a hand on Jessica’s shoulder and guided her out the door. Ainsley held onto her arm tightly, head balanced on her shoulder, and Jessica kissed the side of her face before they were whisked away by a few agents at the door. Bright stayed where he was, stock-still.

A few agents moved carefully into the kitchen, guns drawn, and sure enough, they reappeared with Watkins, who looked dazed. He caught Bright’s eye.

“I knew you had it in you,” he murmured, grinning widely. “You’ve still got some work to do, but...nice job, Malcolm. I almost thought I had them for sure; it’s almost a pity.”

Bright jerked forward, and JT grabbed him around the waist, holding him back. He nodded quickly to the agents-- _get him out of here before this dude completely loses his shit_ \--and tightened his hold as Bright thrashed.

“Let me go,” he hissed, though his voice was soft, “JT...please. He needs--”

“We’ve got him now,” Gil soothed, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’re okay now.”

“He’s gonna--”

“He’s not gonna hurt anyone anymore,” JT said firmly. “You got him, Bright. Everyone’s safe now. It’s cool, man, just calm down.”

Bright lurched forward again, but weaker this time, and JT kept his arms around him. “Calm down, Bright,” he ordered again, “deep breaths, come on. We got Watkins. He’s gone. You’re okay. In and out, Bright.”

Bright wheezed, coughed, and went limp, relaxing in their hold. JT kept his grip and went down with him, settling into a criss-cross position on the tile.

“Breathe in for four,” he coached, “hold it in.”

Bright spluttered, hacked, but didn’t react. His eyes were glazed and blank, like he was slowly pulling away from himself.

“Hey, now,” JT said, tapping him on the shoulder, “none of that. Stay here.”

He looked up to Gil, who nodded and jogged out of the room, calling for a medic. JT turned back to Malcolm. “Hands on the ground. Look at me.”

It took a while, but Bright lifted his head and stared at JT. His mouth parted, but no words came out. He planted his hands on either side of him, and they trembled so hard that his arms followed suit, wracking his entire body with violent tremors.

He was in shock for sure, but not just emotionally. JT was suddenly aware of a hot wetness seeping against his shirt, and he twisted Bright to get a better look. Sure enough, his own button-up was plastered to his stomach with blood, staining JT’s hands and dripping steadily onto the floor.

“It’s okay,” Bright sighed, “it’s okay.”

“That doesn’t look okay,” JT said dumbly.

“S’okay,” Bright insisted again, “it’s all...it’s all gonna be okay.”

His head dropped forward onto JT’s shoulder. JT moved to shift him onto the ground, but Bright continued to blubber incoherently, head lolling, arms twitching. JT swallowed when he noticed the broken thumb.

“Safe,” Bright breathed.

“All safe,” JT confirmed, keeping one solid palm planted onto his chest. “You did good.”

Bright hummed, eyes wandering around before settling on JT’s face. “Y’re real?”

“Super real. You’ll be okay, man. Back on your ass in no time.”

“R’ght…” Bright trailed off, eyes drifting to the side, but then his body locked up tight. JT stiffened, ready to shout for someone, but before he could speak Bright’s face contorted into an expression of cold, pure _fear_ that sent chills up JT’s spine.

“No,” Bright whispered. “ _No._ ”

“What?” JT demanded.

“ _No_ ,” Bright said again, louder this time. “No...get out. Get out, get out, _get out, get out, get b...back. Now._ ”

“What?”

“ _S’my...my family. Not...no. No. No._ ”

JT looked up, wondering who he was speaking to, but there was no one. Gil pushed into the room, EMTs following in suit, and Bright rolled to face them.

“Go,” he mumbled, but his efforts to speak were quickly silenced as one of the EMT’s fixed an oxygen mask over his face and the other ran diagnostics over his voice. JT couldn’t keep track of what they were saying; he was too busy staring at the stomach-dropping look in Bright’s eyes

“BP’s low, crush wound to the left hand,” one of them said.

“Pupils are normal,” another added. “Pass that gauze. Sir, we’re the medics and we’re here to...”

Their words drifted off as they moved along, and Gil helped JT back up.

“He was talking to someone,” JT said. “Think he was hallucinating or something from the blood loss.”

“Blood loss,” Gil echoed, but his tone made JT skeptical. He snapped out of his reverie and looked down at JT’s shirt, dark with Bright’s blood. “Damn.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” JT agreed. Gil still looked nervous, so he put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We got ‘em, boss. He’s okay now. Held his own, too, it looks like.”

“That’s our boy,” Gil replied, warmth creeping into his voice. JT patted his back before following the EMTs out the door.

They did it. They found Bright and arrested Watkins. JT was still curious about the invisible figure Bright had been speaking to--actually, there were a _lot_ of things he was curious about--but there would be time for that later. Right now, they had reports to fill and a crime scene to handle.

* * *

_Beep. Beep._

JT stood in Bright’s hospital room, uncomfortable. What was he doing here? On the bed, Bright was sleeping, the blood wiped from his face and his hand tucked neatly into a cast. He looked not-so-dead anymore, but still, and it was unnerving.

“O-kay,” he said awkwardly, “you’re out cold and Gil wanted me to say hello for him, so...hey.”

No response.

“Right, then. Uh...I’m just gonna go now, ‘cause this is kinda dumb...not that you can hear me.”

“I can hear you.”

JT sighed and moved closer to the bed, taking a seat and watching Bright open his eyes and roll his head lazily in his direction.

“Hey, Jeffery,” he slurred. “Wassup?”

Of course he was high as a kite.

( _Higher than a kite_ , Bright had corrected them once, when he was in a similar situation.)

“They’ve got you on the good stuff, huh?” JT commented out loud.

“Mhm. Can’t feel anything.”

“Guess that’s a good thing.”

Bright giggled. “Morphine. Not my drug of choice, but eh, what can you do?” He took a moment to catch his breath before continuing. “‘Breathe in for four’.”

“Huh?”

“‘Breathe in for four, hands on the ground’...that’s what you said. Back there.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Grounding technique. Where’d you learn it?”

JT exhaled. “Pal of mine. Back in the army.”

“Huh. Neat.” After a pause, Bright added: “What else did you learn there?”

A whole hell of a lot. JT struggled with the question and finally came up with: “Brotherhood.”

“Mmm. I’m a brother.”

“I know.”

“You a brother?”

“Not really,” JT admitted, “but I consider my friends to be my brothers.”

“We brothers?” Bright asked drowsily.

“Hell no,” JT blurted out, but then Bright looked at him with such sad eyes that he bit his lip. “Sorry. Um, well...ugh, you're an ass, you know that? You plotted this.”

“Thassa’ grown-up word, Javier.”

“Shut your mouth, Malcolm,” JT simpered, but his words were light. “I was saying...yeah. You’re right.”

“Usually am. Be specific.”

“We’re brothers,” JT huffed. “I do...consider you a friend.”

“Sorry, I didn’t hear that, could--”

“Do you want to stay here any longer than you need to?”

“Okay, okay. I’ll take it.” Bright rolled his head back to rest more comfortably, a satisfied grin plastered on his face. He giggled before turning back to JT. “Hey, brother.”

“Hiya,” JT grumped.

“You called me Malcolm.”

“I did.”

“Haven’t called me that in years.”

JT stopped. “...You remembered?”

“Mhm. Remember lots and lots and lots.”

“You little--you knew?” JT scoffed. “You met me and knew I was the same...you suck, Bright.”

“That’s my thing,” Bright slurred, closing his eyes. “Hey, if I die here, will you tell me your name?”

“Shut up and sleep, Bright.”

Soon enough, his breathing evened out, and JT stood up to leave.

“Okay then,” he murmured, casting a final look at Bright before leaving the room. And, because he would never say it to him while he was conscious, JT added: “Chin up and get better, kid.”

_Gil gave a resigned sigh._ “ _Look, I know he's a little different,” he said, “but trust me. Bright's one of us.”_

As much as he hated to admit it, JT knew Gil was right.

**Author's Note:**

> WOW that was longer than expected


End file.
